


Pad Luck

by SSHoneyDipper (BeenAgainWords)



Category: The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: 1967 Los Angeles, Internal Conflict(s), M/M, Mike is also tired of himself, Mike is tired of responsibility, Period-Typical Homophobia, Peter's the only stable one for once, Referenced Masturbation, Referenced Queerbashing, Sexuality Crisis, They're all a little bent, love square, we'll see where it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeenAgainWords/pseuds/SSHoneyDipper
Summary: Mike's night alone in the pad is disrupted when Peter gets in trouble. A late night offer completely alters the friendships of everyone in the Pad
Relationships: Mike Nesmith/Peter Tork
Comments: 18
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

It was the first time in nearly two months Mike had the pad to himself for the evening. The Monkees had snagged a ten week gig in a hole-in-the wall club that had them playing Mondays to Thursdays every week. Davy often went out with some chick afterwards, but performing back-to-back sets really wore the other three out, especially Micky, who was slow to learn that his boundless energy _could_ in fact fade after four hours of drumming and singing. But, tonight was a quiet Saturday night. The Manchester Casanova was out on his third date of the week, Micky was at his favorite dying movie theater that could only afford to play thirty-year old gangster films, and Peter was filling in for a banjo player at a club he used to frequent when he first moved to LA from the Village.

Mike got up to turn off the TV and flopped on the couch, enjoying the relative silence. The door to the deck was left open, and on top of the soft crashes of waves he could hear some other kids carrying on loudly at the beach. For a moment he was annoyed at the yelling and loud laughter, but he was quick to realize that he was just being grouchy again. Mike was frequently frustrated with his complete and utter inability to just let loose. He loved the guys a lot, and they were a gas to be around, but when it came to getting drunk or high or just having a good time, it was like _he_ was the baby of the group that needed to be shown how to act. Like _he_ was the one that needed to be shown what to do to get Micky’s energy or laugh at what Davy finds funny or just not care what people think like Peter. Everyone knew Mike was the leader, and when it came to band contracts, paying bills, or making rules he was in his prime, but in the realm of being a young, healthy, rambunctious 24 year old, he was clueless.

He hated that he liked having the quiet pad to himself. He knew he should be out with some chick, or dancing and drinking at some club somewhere, but he was honestly content just being at home reading a Zane Grey Western and watching TV. But no, tonight he was sick of being some geriatric old geezer or a fussing mother. Tonight, he was alone and he was going to act his age. He stood up sharply with resolve, getting a bit dizzy, but ready to reclaim his youth nonetheless.

_But how?_ He thought to himself, sitting back down. Breaking rules was the obvious one, and one that was often brought up by Pete and Micky, the resident hippies, but almost all the pad rules were Mike’s own creation, and not very thrilling ones at that: No using the bathroom for more than half an hour, knock before entering bedrooms, Micky can’t cook alone, whoever’s closest to the phone has to pick it up, yada yada yada. Mike swung his feet up on the table and dropped his hands in his lap, which sparked an idea. One more rule: no “getting frisky” in common areas. Mike could feel the anticipation pool in his stomach. It’s not like he hadn’t planned on _that_ tonight. It was the first time he’d been alone in weeks, of course a little personal intimacy would be on the agenda, and the other guys could probably guess that if they’d spent any time thinking about what Mike would be doing tonight, but here? In the living room? It was a young thing to do. And surely if anyone deserved a break from all the rules it’d be Mike. Just as he nervously began to fumble with his zipper, a loud knock came at the door. Slightly relieved, he removed his feet from the table to get up just as the door swung open and a disheveled and distraught Pete scrambled through the door.

“Mike?” he called, despite already seeing him on the couch. Mike noticed that he had a bloody nose and a cut under his eye. “Mike I messed up. I messed up.” Peter beelined towards where Mike was sitting, and Mike beelined for the bathroom. It wasn’t until Mike was kneeling in front of the linen closet that he realized that he probably should’ve comforted Peter before getting the first-aid kit and a wet washcloth, but just as he was about to open his mouth to shout out to him he found the kit and brought it out, showing Peter, who was already sitting cross-legged on the couch.

“What happened, Shotgun? You’re not the fighting type.” he handed Peter the washcloth for his nose. Perching on the arm of the couch and opening the kit on the coffee table, he nudged Pete’s knee to get him to turn and face him. Pete shifted, and Mike noticed a split lip and some early bruising too. He was crying, too, but Mike recalled Peter saying something about not being able to tear up, so his face wasn’t tear-stricken.

“I wasn’t fighting, Mike. It’s all my fault, I messed everything up for us, man, I really messed up.”

Mike ignored the drop in his gut when Peter said “us”. His friend was obviously hurt. He shouldn’t be concerned with how it would affect himself and the band. Selfish, he scolded himself. “Just start from the beginning Pete.” He said as he grabbed a cotton ball and disenfectant. “Weren’t you filling in for someone at Green Woods?” _And where’s your banjo?_ He wanted to ask. Instruments weren’t cheap.

Peter winced when Mike dabbed the alcohol-soaked cotton ball at the cut under his eye. “Yeah, I was. The set went great. Jack even offered me a place as a permanent member but I told him I was already in a band.” Peter watched Mike’s concentrated expression crack a small smile at his loyalty, which made him feel ever so slightly better. “But anyways, the guy behind the bar kept making eyes at me, and y’know,” he paused and took a shaky breath, “I was feeling it, so after the gig I went up to him and we went outside for a smoke and I guess I read him wrong so he started wailing on me and calling me queer so loud that people walking by could hear and then I just beat it out of there and oh god Mike I’m sorry.”

Peter talked a hundred miles an hour and was practically hyperventilating now, so Mike cupped his hand around the back of his neck to hold him still as he dabbed up the last of the blood from his eye. His gaze slipped over to Peter’s panicked eyes, and tried to give him a reassuring smile, which seemed to help. Pete never told him about his interest in men before, and it wasn’t that Mike was surprised (well, there’s always a bit of shock, even if there’s obvious signs), he was just startled at the context Peter was telling him in. He wasn’t disgusted, or anything. Hell, he was half sure he leaned that way too, even though he’d never tried it. _Maybe now with Peter_ ….he pushed the thought aside.

“Pete, I’m sorry that happened, and I’m sure glad you got out of there quick, but why on earth are you apologizing to me, buddy? How does that ruin anything for the band? You know we don’t play folk joints.” he squeezed that back of his neck lightly, before deciding he got all of the sidewalk grime out of Peter’s cut.

Peter checked the bloody washcloth to see if there was any new blood flowing. A bit was. “He said never to come back to _his_ club ever again.” His face was starting to feel cooler now.

“So?”

“So if he owns the club then he might tell other club owners not to hire us for gigs.”

Mike relaxed. If that was all Peter was worried about, then they’ll be just fine. “Did you tell him that you were in a group called the Monkees?” he asked, trying to get him to rationalize.

“No, I don’t think so.” He checked the washcloth again. There was no change in blood flow, but he decided to give up on it anyway. He made eye contact with Mike again. He knew that they were the same age, Peter was almost a year older than him, but something about the Texan just made Peter feel reassured and protected. Mike was pretty old for his age, he guessed.

Mike cracked a smile. “So in order for anything that happened tonight to affect us, some folk joint owner would have to go around to all the clubs in LA and tell them not to hire a band _that he don’t know the name_ _of_ and can only identify by one of the members being an average-height guy with long blonde hair. And the other club owners would have to care enough to remember that whenever they’re auditioning bands.” Mike clapped him on the shoulder gently and gave an affectionate smile. “That’s quite a stretch, Pete.”

Peter grinned back. “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Mike. At least you can think rationally. I can’t imagine what Davy or Micky would’ve said.” He motioned to the medical kit. “Thanks for that, too.”

Mike began to feel a bit better about himself, despite a hint of embarrassment at how quickly he turned into a mother hen when Peter walked in the door. “I’d bet any money Davy would be out trying to beat the guy up. Heck, I’ve got half the mind to myself.” He gave a small sideways smile, took the wet washcloth from Peter’s hand, and packed up the medical kit. “I’ll go get you some aspirin. You’re probably going to bruise.” He got up from the arm of the couch and went to put everything back in the bathroom. _Just leave a mess_ for once, he thought as he knelt in front of the linen closet again. _World ain’t gonna end if you just let a mess exist for a bit._ But he knew he wouldn’t or couldn’t.

“Any idea on how you can get your banjo back?” Mike asked as he returned a few moments later with a rewetted cloth, two pills, and a cup of water.

“Thanks” Peter murmured when he took the glass and the pills. “Jack probably has it, I’ll go ‘round to his tomorrow afternoon and pick it up.” Mike didn’t know Jack. He wasn’t a hermit by any means, but he didn’t have many friends of his own like the other three, just mutual ones with the guys or other bands. He should really work on that. “Sorry for ruining your night, Mike.” Peter stirred his thoughts and took the washcloth.

“Nah, you didn’t ruin anything. I wasn’t doing nothing, anyhow.” He motioned to the black TV screen, and inwardly warmed with the embarrassment at what he would be doing right now had Peter not made his entrance.

“You had the whole pad to yourself and you’re telling me you didn’t have _any_ plans, Michael?” Peter asked with a suggestive smirk.

Mike blushed visibly. “Awh, shut it.” he said a bit bashfully, but didn’t deny anything. He knew his friend to be direct and able to innocently talk about non-innocent things, but being from Texas and all Mike didn’t know how to talk about sex.

The conversation fell a bit flat like it usually did with the “strong and silent” (why everyone categorized Mike as that, he’ll never know) leader, and an awkward silence quickly settled.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Peter asked and looked Mike in the eyes, apparently immune to the air of awkward. “Me digging guys and all, I told the others---well, I never told Micky but I guess he figured it out somehow--- but I guess I didn’t know how you’d react so I just never mentioned it. I’ve never brought guys around to the pad, though, so don’t---” Peter rambled before Mike cut him off.

“No! No, I don’t mind. ‘Course I don’t.” He looked at the blank TV screen and crossed his arms, blushing. “I’d be a bit of a hypocrite if I did.” He’d never even thought about telling any of the guys, or ever really planned on acting on his feelings, despite being involved in the LA nightlife. He thought it would just create tension, and he didn’t like to draw attention to his sex life.

Beside him, Peter’s eyes widened. “You, Michael? I would’ve never… gee.” He always thought Mike was as straight as you could go, not to mention God-fearing.

A good deal uncomfortable, Mike blushed and sunk into the couch a bit more. “Well, yeah. At least I think so. I’ve never really been, y’know...with a guy or anything.” He _really_ did not think this was the way the night was going to go.

Peter grinned at his bandmate, although he knew he wasn’t looking at him. Peter always liked whenever Mike talked about something that wasn’t about the band or rent or bills. They’d lived together for a while now, but Pete still felt like he knew next to nothing about Mike. Him confiding in Peter made him seem a lot more human.

“Do you want to?”

“Well,” Mike did a double take, as if looking for a way out of the conversation, “well I...I…” He realized he was waiting for Micky or Davy to jump in and cut him off, so he wouldn’t have to answer the question. But it was just the two of them. And Peter wasn’t wearing some seductive, alluring expression like he’d seen girls do whenever they propositioned him. He was just Peter, as honest and simple and innocent as ever. He shut his mouth and took a moment.

“Yeah, I do.” he said quietly. He was looking straight ahead, chin to his chest in his practically horizontal slouching position on the couch. For a moment he could feel the shame flowing through his body from his head to his toes. What would his mother think? All those Sundays sermons at the little white church. Beside him, Peter moved closer, staring at him. Mike quickly looked over at his advancing bandmate. “But not right now, Pete. Peter.” He corrected, “Your nose is still bloody, and you’ve probably got bruises all over.”

He stopped and nodded. “I can understand if you’re nervous, Mike.” Peter admired Mike, in all sorts of ways, but he knew the signs of masking feelings from all the psych books he read, and Michael Nesmith was a posterboy.

Mike sat up a bit and turned to face the other Monkee. “No, I’m n---” he began to protest. “Well, yeah, ‘course I am, but we’ll have other opportunities when you’re not all bashed up. Davy’s always on dates, and we’ll just tell Micky a James Cagney film’s playing at his theater.”

Peter looked a little bummed, but shrugged and smiled all the same. “I guess so. I just don’t want you to lose interest.” he lied down and rested his mop of silky hair on Mike’s thigh. Mike took the wet washcloth from Pete’s hand and began rubbing some of the remnant grime and blood off of Peter’s cheeks.

“Believe you me, I won’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good number of you seemed interested in a continuation of this story, so here's a second chapter. More to come, eventually.

Micky was the first to come home that night. The Music Box Theater had a double feature of _Dr. Mabuse_ and _The Case of the Lucky Legs_ that kept him entertained until about 11:00, but the usherette he’d usually try his luck with was off that night, so he decided to just head straight home. 

He hadn’t told any of the guys, but Micky hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since they took their latest gig. He made sure to give his all when they played, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice. The four of them playing their own music under those hot stage lamps always possessed him with a mania unlike anything else, but as soon as the last song was over he would practically collapse from exhaustion. The joint they were playing at was well within walking distance, but eventually Mike just decided it was easier to drive than carry Micky the four blocks home. Still, falling asleep in the Monkeemobile only to drag himself up the spiral staircase always took the last bit of energy from his body, and the six and a half hours he got before Mike’s 6:00 alarm was never enough sleep. 

From the scene Micky encountered after walking in the front door, however, he knew he’d get a few more hours of solid sleep tonight. Mike was passed out on the couch, his head hung backwards over the arm of the couch in a way that definitely couldn’t be comfortable. But what was more interesting than his position was their very own Peter Tork laying on Mike’s chest, with a blanket covering both of them. The television was on and Micky crept over with a slight smirk to see what was playing, but instead noticed that Peter’s face was pretty badly bruised. 

He didn’t have the first clue of how Pete could’ve gotten that hurt. It obviously wasn’t Mike that beat him up. Everyone knew the Texan had a soft spot for Peter, what with him always springing to his defense. No, Pete was probably just walking through a sketchy neighborhood and got ganged up on. Micky didn’t like the mental image, but it looked like everything turned out alright, more or less. Micky stood there for a bit, just looking at the two. Mike looked oddly serene. He wondered when the last time the Texan had a hug, let alone any sustained physical contact. _Actually, strike that_ , he thought, _I know exactly when was the last time, and it’s been too long._ Oh, the wonders and woes of being roommates!

Whatever program was on the TV faded to silence for a second before a commercial break, so Micky noticed the sound of the ocean and looked up to see the door to the deck was open. Beaming a last time at the two Monkees on the couch, he went to shut the door and turn the lights out. Mike would have a conniption if he found out the lights were on the whole night. The job they had now paid nicely enough, but they all knew that it was better to scrimp and save for the inevitability of being out of work again. 

As Micky’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he heard the front door swing open and Davy sauntered in with a sated grin. When he finally saw Mike and Peter, his eyes widened in a bit of shock. Making eye contact with Micky on the bandstand, he let his jaw drop and pointed at the two as if to say ‘can you see this?’ He nodded, and put a finger to his lips to remind Davy to be quiet. The brit waved him to his bedroom and shut the door behind them. 

“Did you see how hurt Pete was?” Micky asked in a loud whisper at the same time Davy, in the same tone, asked “You don’t think those two shagged, do you?” 

“What?” They both replied, equally shocked. Micky smacked the side of Davy’s head playfully. “Are you crazy? It’s Mike and Peter. _Mike_ and Peter. They were probably just watching a movie or something and fell asleep. You really do have a filthy mind.” he teased.

Davy looked down at the ground and shook his head. “You’re right, you’re right. Guess it’s just on my mind tonight.” he said, shooting a wink at Micky, “What was that about Peter? How’s he hurt?”

Micky leaned against the foot of Davy’s bed and shrugged. “I dunno, his face was just all bruised and he had a cut under his eye. Looked like he got beat up.” 

Davy turned around and pulled his night clothes out of his dresser. “Well if he was I’ll clobber the guy who did it.” he punched the balled up pajamas for effect. “Who’d ever want to hurt a guy like Peter? You’d have to be pretty sick.” He motioned for Micky to throw him his towel, which was behind him on the bed. 

Micky reached behind him and threw him the towel, which was still damp from his pre-date shower. “Yeah, how ‘bout it. Say, how’d your date go?” Micky already knew the answer, since Davy was obviously about to shower twice within five hours. 

Davy leaned back and whistled to himself. “Mate, she was _fantastic_. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Was that girl you’ve got it out for at the cinema tonight?” 

Micky ran a hand through his dense curls. “Bea? No, I think she had off. And I do not _‘ave it out for ‘er_! I just think she’s pretty groovy, y’know.” Micky stood up, leaving. “And don’t wake either of those two up. If Mike’s on the couch tonight that means I won’t have to wake up to a 6 o’clock alarm.” 

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Night Mick.”

“Night Davy.”

* * *

Peter woke up the next morning to the opening theme song of Sunday Gospel Jubilee coming from the TV. He wasn’t really religious (at least, not in the western sense), but the thought of listening to hymns and songs about Jesus while being cuddled up with another man was a bit too incongruous for him. So, he peeled himself away from Mike’s chest and stumbled over to turn the TV off. 

Either the lack of Peter or the lack of background noise caused Mike to stir awake, and he stretched out his limbs on the small couch and rubbed the back of his neck with a yawn. He gave Pete a sleepy smile.

“Morning, shotgun. How you feeling?” 

Peter turned around from the TV set. His eyes were immediately drawn to Mike’s ridiculous bedhead, and how the absolutely absurd he looked. _Maybe that’s why he wears the wool hat so much_. He cracked a smile. “Morning, Michael. I don’t feel that bad, actually. Thanks for taking care of me.” There was a dull throbbing in his cheeks, and smiling did make the cut under his eye a bit painful, and maybe he was a bit stiff from sleeping on top of a hard body all night, but he was fine. 

The door to the bedroom he shared with Davy creaked open, and a fully dressed Davy emerged. “It’s about time you two got up. Mike, it’s your day to cook breakfast, and I’m famished.” 

Mike’s head shot up from the couch to look at Davy, and Peter could see that his neck and cheeks were flushed with embarrassment as he realized that both he and Micky probably saw Mike and Pete sleeping together on the couch last night. Davy sat in the chair next to the couch, abruptly ending Mike and Peter’s morning exchanges. 

“What time is it, anyway?” Mike groaned out in his morning voice. He slowly sat up, noticing it was lighter than usual out. 

“It’s about quarter ‘til eleven. Nice hair, by the way.” Davy replied. Mike reached up to his head to flatten out as much of his wiry hair he could.

“Mike’s up?” Micky called from the upstairs railing, seeming unusually cheerful for the morning. “Great. I’m starved.” He slid down the staircase railing.

“Eleven o’clock?” Mike was in disbelief, Normally he would’ve been up for five hours by now. “Geez, I’m sorry fellas,” he pulled the blankets off of his lap and made his way over to the kitchen, becoming a little more self conscious about his morning wood than usual since everyone was aware of what he woke up to. 

“We’ve only got a few eggs left, everybody game for french toast?” Mike called from the kitchen, and everyone agreed, so Mike melted a slab of butter in a frying pan and began battering. 

Micky took Mike’s previous seat on the couch and got a better look at Peter’s face in the daylight. There were some definite black and blue marks along the side of his face and the bridge of his nose, and there was a bit of dried blood on his upper lip. The cut on his face didn’t look as bad as it did in the TV light last night, but it was probably still painful. 

“What the hell happened, Pete? You look as bad as bad as Davy after that boxing snafu.” Davy nodded in agreement from the armchair.

Peter reached up and surveyed his face with his hands before telling them the same story he told Mike the night before. In the kitchen, Mike overheard the whole conversation, complete with Davy’s promise of revenge. He had no clue why, but for some reason he felt a little hurt that Peter was telling the other two the same story, as if it were supposed to be a secret kept between him and Peter. The other two weren’t at all shocked hearing about Peter’s attraction to the guy behind the bar, and were more focused on what an asshole the guy seemed to be. Maybe it just bothered Mike that Peter was scared to tell Mike about his interest in guys, as if he were afraid Mike wouldn’t accept him. _Don’t dwell on it_ , he told himself and his mind drifted to Peter’s offer last night, and if and when he would take him up on that. 

He liked Pete a lot. He reminded him of a golden retriever he’d had as a kid in Texas. He had the same sort of docility and comfort that made him feel strong and safe, but he wasn’t sure if Peter ever crossed his mind romantically or intimately. The idea gave him an excited tightness in his chest, no doubt, but he couldn’t imagine ever initiating something like that with one of his best friends. Not to mention how disastrous it could be for the group if it turned sour. Mike shook his head.. _Not a good idea,_ he told himself, _it’s just been a while since you’ve gotten laid. That’s all. Pete being willing to show you a few new things won’t justify the consequences. No way._

“Grub’s almost ready.” he called out to the three in the living room, and put some fruit on the table that he knew none of them would eat. 

The four gathered around the table, covering their breakfasts with various amounts of Karo syrup. They talked about normal stuff, Micky and Peter said they both needed to go to the laundromat today, Davy talked about his plans to buy the newest Donovan album, which Mike agreed to split the cost with him, and all of them agreed that they should rehearse Steppin’ Stone tonight, which had progressively gotten worse every time they played it last week. 

“Me and Davy were planning on hitting the beach soon.” Micky said, leaning back with his hands crossed behind his head. “Do you two want to come?” 

Peter caught Mike’s eye and Mike quickly looked somewhere, anywhere, else, and missed Pete’s brow furrowing in confusion. Looking at Micky would have made the most sense, but Mike didn’t come to that realization until he fixed his eyes on the water stains on the ceiling. “I-- I’ve got to clean up from breakfast, but maybe I’ll be down later.”

Mike was still looking at the water stains when Peter replied, “I’ll stay and help Mike, I’ve got a book overdue at the library I’ve got to find and drop off. Might not be back until…” Peter checked his wrist for a watch he’s never worn, “Three o’clock?”

“Not a problem.” Davy answered with a sweeping hand gesture. “Always a sunny day in LA! Right?”

“Right.” The other three replied in unison, and the two younger Monkees scattered from the table as Mike got up and gathered sticky dishes. Peter just remained in his seat, looking at Mike.

Peter, without even looking around to see that Davy and Micky were out of earshot, immediately said, “You know I’m serious about what I said last night, right, Michael?” He piled his silverware onto his plate to give to Mike, which he took.

Mike took the time to look for the other two Monkees, who had already retreated into their respective bedrooms to change. “Yeah, Pete, I know. It’s just----”

“It doesn’t have to go anywhere! It can stay casual. Even just cuddling with you last night was nice.”

Mike internally grimaced at ‘cuddling’. He didn’t like to think of cuddling as something adults did. Especially not him. “Well, maybe, but---”

“And I didn’t offer because I like you. I mean-- of course I like you, you’re my best friend, you dig? But I didn’t say that because I _dig_ dig you I just thought you’d want someone to try things out with and I don’t mind being that someone ‘cause it’s kinda dangerous when you don’t know what you’re doing and I don’t want you to---”

Mike stuck the kitchen sponge in Peter’s mouth to shut him up, which he quickly spit out with a disgusted expression, but it effectively silenced his chattering. “I know, shotgun, I just don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean, I’d like it, no two ways about it. You’re one groovy cat, I just don’t want anything to backfire and hurt the band.” He knew everything he was saying was true and genuine, but as soon as the words settled in the room, Mike felt an air of regret. Now that he’d put an end to the proposal, he wanted nothing more to take it back. Still, he turned his back to Pete, picking up the sponge and turned on the tap to start rinsing dishes. 

Regret wasn’t an unusual feeling, all in all. Sure, Mike was the decision maker for the group, but with damn near every ‘yes’ or ‘no’ he was terrified that he’d made the wrong decision. Sure, maybe turning down a gig that asked for too much and paid too little _seemed_ like a good idea, but what about all the hidden possibilities that could have introduced the group to some hotshot producer or skyrocketed them to fame? Mike believed in upward mobility: the American Dream. Davy must’ve too, or else he’d have stayed in Manchester. Enough hard work gets you anywhere, right? Well, in Mike’s opinion, the four of them had been working way too hard far too long for the little headway they made in the LA music scene. At this rate, they wouldn’t get anywhere near a record, let alone a tour until their early thirties. The Beatles seemed to be an overnight success. An amateur group of Liverpudlians one day and the Fab Four the next. Atleast, that’s what the papers told. That opportunity must be out there for them somewhere, and maybe all of Mike’s logically calculated decisions were just steering them farther away from success. 

But still, bandmates fooling around together? Mike picked up the first dish and scrubbed the syrup residue from the ceramic surface of one of the plates. _It’ll just lead to tension and unrequited feelings,_ Mike thought to himself. _Or,_ another voice argued, _it really could be as free-of-consequences as Pete says, and you’d just be turning down casual sex and a chance to---_

Mike blindly tried to place the washed dish on the counter while reaching for the next when the plate was taken from his hands. Slightly startled, he looked over to see Pete standing there, clutching the plate in both hands with a drying towel. He didn’t look at Mike, but his usual resting smile was absent and replaced by a downtrodden look. Mike stared for a second, before reaching again for the second plate. 

Poor Peter was always recovering from cold rejections made in the name of logic, Mike realized, and something within him stirred with a deep empathy. He remembered being young, and wanting nothing in the world more than a dog. That same golden retriever, actually, and his mother saying no. A big family and little money: his mother hardly had enough to feed her kids, let alone a dog. Mike didn’t make a fuss about it. He knew his mother had been right. She was only being logical. 

And yet, the next morning he woke up to a puppy on the rug. 

Mike finished washing the plate, and handed it to Peter. He let his whole body follow, too, until all at once he was pressed to his chest with his soapy hands in his hair and his mouth planted firmly on his.

 _Completely out of character,_ a voice said inside of Mike's head. 

_Shut up,_ he told it. 


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Peter recovered from the shock of Mike’s kiss, the water on the plate pressed between them had soaked into both of their shirts, and Peter could feel the dampness against his skin. The tight grip on his heartstrings suddenly released, and he lost at least an inch of height when his posture slackened with the melting feeling in his bones. 

Pete had barely begun to reciprocate when Mike suddenly dropped his hands from Pete’s hair and pulled back, wide-eyed and tense.  _ He’s in shock _ , he recognized. He’d only seen Mike act on impulse a handful of times before, just on small stuff like a last minute ice cream flavor decision or catching already-crowning waves while surfing, but every time there was an almost comical mental recoil. 

Pete figured it was best to act before any seed of regret could be planted in Mike’s mind, so he wrapped his free hand around the back of his neck and pulled him back in. 

Mike was quick to jump back on the horse, this time with the thrilling realization that he was finally, actually, sharing a kiss with a  _ man _ . His mind swarmed with all the nights he had imagined what it would be like. He remembered being fifteen in his creaky old bed, eighteen and laying on his cot in the barracks, twenty-two in a house with three guys he hardly knew. He tried to think of everyone he’d imagine, but it was all fuzzy. Right now he could only think of Pete.

He savored every difference: a closer, harder embrace and not having to lean down as much, a few lower pitched sounds and even the rougher skin and thinner lips. Pete wasn’t as pliant as girls, though, and learning to share dominance was a steep learning curve. And when Peter was the first to introduce tongue, he had to recoil. 

Mike’s eyes shot open and he jolted back again, but Pete’s arm around his neck kept him close. He stared at Pete, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the door to the downstairs bedroom swing open. 

He broke out from Pete’s hold on him, with maybe a little too much force. Pete squinted in confusion, before following Mike’s eyes to Davy emerging from the room in his swim trunks, but turned back with the same expression and a shake of his head.  _ So?  _

_ It’s like he doesn’t even care!  _ Mike thought, straightening out his shirt and stumbling away from Pete, realizing only then the matching damp circles on their fronts from the plate. He turned back to the sink, hiding the evidence. 

“What are you doing loitering up there, Mick?” Davy called up to the balcony, which Mike struck a white-hot rod of fear down his spine. He slowly looked up to see Micky peering down at the two of them from the balcony.

Micky wiped the smirk off his face and clambered down the stairs. “I left my board shorts on the porch railing, but I didn’t want to interrupt anything,” he answered airily and shot Mike a wink. Mike’s stomach dropped to the ground and pooled around his feet.

Davy didn’t seem to think anything of it. “Well, hurry up,” he said and left for the beach. 

“I hope he’s not looking for another date,” Peter said with a sigh.

“Davy? No way. I hear there's a submarine race tonight, though.” Micky replied with a sarcastic grin. He looked over at Mike, who was still in a dumbfounded state. “Don’t sweat it, Mike.” he gave a shrug and went to get his shorts before retreating into the bathroom to actually change. 

Mike, who was  _ absolutely _ sweating it, sat down and put his head on the table. Within five seconds, Pete’s hand was on his back. 

“So what, Mike? Micky knows, who cares?”

“I care!” Mike sat up, shoulders slumped. “So what? I’ll tell you ‘so what’! So Micky tells Davy, and them everybody knows. That’s ‘so what’!”

Peter sat down next to him. He left some room between himself and the table, already knowing that he would be talking with his hands for this one.

“Okay, so Micky tells Davy. But you trust them, right?”

“Well, what kind of question is that? ‘Course I trust them.” Mike grumbled miserably.

“So what are you worried about? They’re not going to go around telling everyone. They know that’s a dumb thing to do, and I’m the one that does all the dumb things, so they won’t!”

Mike couldn’t argue with that logic. “Huh,” he squeaked and picked his head up. “Maybe you’re right. Who cares if they know? They know about you, and that’s alright.” He began to feel a little embarrassed for overreacting. “Thanks, shotgun.” Maybe all the Monkee stage theatrics the four of them would pull to make eachother laugh were starting to embed in their actual personalities. Mike figured it must’ve been pretty comical to watch his mood switch like that, although it didn’t feel like it. 

Beside him, Peter wore a dopey smile, proud of himself for reasoning with Mike. 

“Alright. How about I finish cleaning up and you go and drop off your book? Then we’ll hit the beach with the other two.” Pete nodded, and Mike headed for the sink while he went to retrieve his book from his room. 

Just as Pete walked out the door, he poked his head back in.

“Mike?”

He looked up from the dishes. “Yeah, good buddy?”

“Offer still stands.”

Mike felt himself flush.

“Golly gee, Mike, how come you always get all the offers?” Micky pouted jokingly from the living room. Sneaky bastard had crept up on them again.

Peter laughed and closed the front door behind him. Mike just shook his head with a dismissive grin.

* * *

Mike didn’t talk it over with Micky until about ten o’clock that night. He’d just finished taking a shower and was getting dressed for bed when Micky came through the door. It was a close call, and luckily he was able to get his briefs on before Micky barged in on him in the buff. Again.

“Aw, c’mon man! What’d we say about knocking? Sometimes I swear you’re trying to catch me plucked,” He grumbled, pulling on his paisley pajama top, “it’s a little weird, y’know.”

Micky shook his head dismissively. “Now, now, Mike, careful not to turn into a hypocrite. I bet you wouldn’t mind it  _ one bit _ if I was Peter.” 

Mike suddenly felt exposed, and considering his current lack of pants, it was understandable, but Micky acknowledging the elephant in the room was both a relief and something he had no idea how to address. 

“Look, Mick.” He sat on the edge of his bed, making a conscious effort not to spread his legs too wide. “I don’t really know what’s going on between Pete and me. It’s all… well, I guess it’s all new to me and Pete’s just… well, nevermind. But, if you and Davy don’t think it’s a good idea I’ll cut it out. Honest.”

Micky looked down at the carpet, slowly switching into a more serious mode. “Thanks, Mike, but I don’t mind. And ‘m sure Davy won’t either. Besides, I don’t really think that’s something you can just cut out. Pete says all that stuff really isn’t a choice.” 

“Oh, well...uh, no I guess not. I mean, I hear there’s bible camps and stuff, but I guess that’s more of a fix--- not that I feel broken, but….” Mike felt himself stumbling over his words. He waved his hands. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about. I just mean between Pete and me. I just thought it was something that affects the band, you see, and if it affects the band you then two should have a say.” He picked some lint off the blanket on his bed. 

“Ohh!” Micky nodded. After a pause, “Yeah, I don’t mind! I mean, I’d probably do the same thing if Peter came on to me or whatever. Y’know, just to try it.”

Mike did a bit of a double take. “uhh...well, that’s not really what hap--”

“--Wait, so is  _ that  _ why you two were on the couch last night?” He said with a wink.

“No, Mick! Nothing like th--”

“--Not that I’m judging. Pete’s a catch, heck, you are t--”

“--Well hey now, wait a minute---”

“--but on the couch, Mike? C’mon--”

“Micky!” Mike yelled with a bit more severity than he meant to. His roommate let his mouth hang. “It’s nothing like that, honest. Just, just, let me explain.” He gave a pointed stare and Micky closed his mouth. “Pete came home after gettin’ reamed last night and told me the whole story. And well, he never told me he was into guys before, y’know, and he asked me if I minded. So, I told him I didn’t and if I did I’d be a hypocrite and all, and that sorta shook him, but I said I’m not hip to it or anything, and he offered to…” Mike faltered, not being able to look Micky in the eye and say what he meant. “Well, you get it.” 

Micky laid down on his bed with his hands behind his head. “Yeah, for sure. But I mean, everyone thinks like that, right? Even Davy says so…” 

Mike had some doubts about that, but he’d also never really talked about it with anyone. But if Davy, the resident skirt-chaser, said so, he’d take his word for it. Mike just shrugged and got up to put his pajama pants on. Micky pulled his own out from under his pillow and sat up to strip off his shirt and pants. Normally, something like that wouldn’t strike a second thought in Mike’s mind, but what with the conversation and all it seemed a bit awkward. 

Mike looked away in his newfound modesty, but Micky seemed spurred on. “Hey, so if you’re a little fruity, have you ever fantasized about me?”

Mikes jaw dropped. Before he could even scramble for words, Micky went on.

“Who am I kidding, course you have!” He stretched out a leg like chicks did in movies, which was, in contrast so fuzzy from body hair that Mike had to laugh. “I’m irresistible! Couldn’t even fault you for it. I mean, you can only take so much...” Micky teased with a grin. Mike smiled and shook his head

“Sure, babe, sure. You hitting the racks? I’m tired.” Micky agreed, so Mike flipped the light switch and shuffled back to his bed. They didn’t say anything to each other, and Micky rolled onto his side to face the wall. As they listened to each other breathe, Mike took a deep breath, exhaling a bit of decade-old tension he didn’t know he had stored up inside.  _ One more reason for leaving Texas, _ he thought to himself.  _ Never in a million years did I think….” _

Mike was drifting off to sleep when he realized that he almost forgot to set the alarm, so he sat up in bed and fumbled with the alarm clock in the dark. Micky let out a defeated groan from across the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty plot-less and basically just explores some of the pre-band days and plays with the different characters' thought processes. By no means an essential chapter, so feel free to skip and skim at your own chosen speed.

Mike rolled over in his bed and covered his ears. It was the middle of the night, and the pad was quiet, but the upper he had taken after their first set at the club was still running its course, so the silence of the pad filled his ears like cotton balls. He didn’t usually need anything to get him through gigs, but for a reason he couldn’t quite understand, today’s activities had worn Mike out more than usual. Afterall, what was so tiring about dressing up as geriatric soviets and smuggling their elderly neighbor out of a spynest run by the KGB under the guise of a senior home? 

Mike shifted in bed and wondered how the four of them always manage to get into those sorts of jams. It was disconcerting. It seemed like none of them would ever realize they fell down these rabbit holes until they were on the other side of it, eating dinner and saying to each other, “Man, that was  _ weird. _ ” And then a few days later, they’d say the same thing after being bound and gagged in the back of an ice cream truck or wrestling a shark into a net for some nut to jet-ski over. 

Now, most days were normal. Pleasant at best, boring at worst, but normal. Without fail however, there’d be one or two days a week where everything would go absolutely berserk. At first, Mike had tried to rationalize with it all, chalking it up to God or high tides. In the early days of the band, Mike, Peter, and Davy were even convinced it was Micky orchestrating it all, since he so readily embraced the pandemonium. Eventually, though, Peter just came to the conclusion that for whatever reason, the four of them together just acted as a giant magnet for mayhem, and it was best not to question it. And, to be fair, even with all the guns and kidnapping and nasty people, they’d never gotten into a situation they couldn’t wiggle their way out of.

Mike crossed his arms above his head and tried to make himself tired by deep breathing, but he could only focus on all the unspent energy lying just under his skin, begging him to move. So, he wiggled his feet and tapped his fingers on his head, letting his mind wander. 

He listened to the LA night outside the window. If he listened closely, he could hear the waves crashing on the beach. For just an instant, he felt  _ exactly _ like he did when he first hopped off the greyhound and hear waves for the first time. It was the giddy feeling of being out of the prairie. To be able to look at the ocean and see an end to all the land. It was himself: alone in a city with nothing more than a guitar in one hand and a suitcase in the other. A new life with nothing to tie him to the past except a military crew cut. It was him, finally in control of his life. He remembered, though how quickly the salty air turned stale and the vibrant city began to drain his life. He was starving, more or less. He’d eat with whatever money he’d get from passing the hat, and slept couch to couch. It wasn’t until a jittery teenager took him home to his parent’s house that he had a proper place in the city.

He looked over at Micky, but could only see his curly hair peeking out from the covers.  _ His hair was so short back then,  _ he thought. He ran a hand through his own wiry hair.  _ Mine was too. _ Mrs. Dolenz let him stay at the family house indefinitely, her only condition being that the two wouldn’t wear their hair over their foreheads like the Beatles. She would cut Mike’s hair herself, telling him stories about her days as a young actress and working with Shirley Temple and Claudette Colbert. Both of Micky’s parents were actors, and pretty successful ones, too, from what Mike heard.

“Micky’s father was always in the movies,” she said once, when it was just the two of them in the house. Mike had nodded stiffly, having his head held up by the hair Mrs. Dolenz pinched between her fingers.. “He was in a lot of the funny ones, later on, but he started as an extra in all those old mobster B movies.” She snipped the longer hairs at the back of his head. “He said it was because he was the best at dying.” Mike remembered how her voice caught. He didn’t reply. He couldn’t think of anything to say quick enough.

She went on, “Sometimes I think that’s why Micky latched onto you like he did. He wasn’t ready to be the man of the house after George passed. You must’ve helped carry some of that weight.” She squeezed his shoulder. Even three years later and hopped up on amphetamines, Mike could still feel the way her hand felt.

“Happy to help,” Mike had replied solemnly. He knew that he’d taken the place of Mr. Dolenz in a lot of ways. He took his place at the dinner table, cleaned the gutters, even did the taxes. He didn’t mean to overstep, but it was all stuff he was used to doing. No one ever said anything, but sometimes he would feel like the ghost of Micky’s pa was hanging on his shoulders.

By early ‘65, though, Micky decided it was time to get out, and so the two of them moved into a slummy apartment closer to the city and grew out their hair. That’s when the whole idea of a band began to grow.

On the other side of the room, a slightly older and much fuzzier Micky whimpered. It abruptly shook Mike out of his memories and caused him to raise a concerned eyebrow. 

Micky had pretty bad nightmares. He’d act them out too, talking or yelling in his sleep. On a few occasions, he’d even get up and start running around the room, hollering and carrying on until Mike came to his senses enough to get him pinned down on his bed again and cup his face to keep him from thrashing his head around too hard.

And despite the energy coursing through Mike’s veins, he wasn’t up for that tonight. He listened, concerned, but after Mick let out another sound, this time a salacious moan, he just reddened and let out an exasperated sigh. It wasn’t  _ just _ nightmares that Micky was active in. Shaking his head in dismissal, he rolled to face the wall. 

“Mike,” he heard, followed by a deep breath. 

“Yeah?” Mike replied, but didn’t get a response. He didn’t mind, it wasn’t the most comfortable situation to talk in. After almost four years of sharing a room with Micky, the two of them had come to the unspoken agreement that waking up sticky in the morning was the lesser of two evils when compared to waking up embarrassed, hard, and staring at your roommate in the moonlight. 

Mike closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. He ran his fingers over the fabric of his sheets and pretended to be shocked when it drifted to another one of his sunny bandmates. He thought of the kiss they’d shared, now four days old, and details his sober mind had forgotten. The feeling of Pete’s exhales on his upper lip, the solid warmth where their chests met. His nerves flowed with jittery energy. 

_ Hot and bothered,  _ he thought to himself.  _ Can’t say it’s only natural, but still… _ He bounced his legs, wishing he could just go to sleep but knowing that he needed to waste some energy. Maybe Micky wouldn’t be the only one waking up with a mess tomorrow.

* * *

Peter and Davy didn’t set alarms in their room. In fact, Davy had even delivered a whole speech to rally Peter’s support for the outright banning of the twin bells. In heated deliverance, he took the clock and raised it straight above his head, out of his grasp. Peter decided not to burst his bubble by using the six inches of height he had on him to pluck the clock from his hands. 

With no alarm, the two of them were either woken up by the smell of breakfast, or a still-tired Micky who would shuffle into their room and fall asleep on the end of Davy’s bed. A few times, Peter felt so bad for him that he thought about offering to switch rooms, but Mike and Micky always had a room together, even in that cramped apartment they used to have. So, Pete didn’t make any waves.

This Friday morning was the latter, so when he was woken up by his favorite fuzzball shaking his knee, he went to start breakfast and offered Micky his bed, which he promptly collapsed on.

“Morning, Michael,” he yawned, leaning against his bedroom door frame. 

Mike, who was sitting at the table with his cup of coffee and morning newspaper, looked up, blushed, and fixed his eyes back on the editorial column. “Morning, Pete.”

Pete smiled and bounced to fill the soup pot with water. He knew how simple it was, but simple greetings always made him happy.  _ ‘Good morning’, is what you’re supposed to say, but it's like everyone everywhere got on the same wavelength and shortened it to just ‘Morning’ _ . He put the pot on the stovetop and put it on as high as he could.  _ It’s almost like everyone is just telling you what time of day it is whenever you see them. Maybe one day we’ll just greet everyone with the time. ‘6:35, Michael’, ‘6:35, Peter.’  _ He laughed to himself, thinking it sounded like the truck driver he hitched a ride from Kansas City to Denver with. 

Mike perked his ears up. “What’s got you laughing this early?” He asked.

“Do you think we’ll ever evolve and talk in codes, or something, Michael? I mean, in the future or something, do you think we’ll ever just find a better way to talk?”

Mike paused for a long moment, looking at how full his coffee cup still was. He didn’t have the energy to keep up with Pete’s far out hypotheticals this early in the morning.  _ Honestly,  _ he thought,  _ he hasn’t been up ten minutes and he’s already pondering the future of language. _

Still, though, he was frustrated by how normal everything had been between them the last few days. After that first kiss, everything had returned to the regular jokes and board games and behavior between the two of them. Mike knew it was on him to pursue anything, or even just swallow his pride and ask, but this was a big change for him and Peter was acting like absolutely nothing had happened. A part of Mike was scared that Peter’s offer was just that-- an offer, and that maybe Peter wasn’t attracted to him at all. Maybe it was just pity. One thing Mike knew for sure though, was that he wasn’t about to ask  _ anyone  _ for sex, let alone his bandmate. If Mike was going to get laid, it’ll be because Peter wants it. He didn’t know how he was going to pull that out of his unafflicted friend, but he was going to find a way to bridge the just-friends gap. A simple conversation seemed like a good enough place to start.

“You mean like  _ Newspeak?”  _ Mike asked, knowing that Pete was well versed in Orwellian. “Naw, I don’t think so.”

Pete sat down across from Mike, drumming his fingers on the table. A small part of Peter’s brain noticed how especially tired Mike looked, but not enough to stop him going on. “No, nothing forced on us by the system.  _ Organic  _ development.” This was a pretty standard morning, afterall. His mind seemed to work best when he was asleep, so when he woke up with new ideas and questions he had to talk about it or write it down before they’d slip away like a dream. A lot of them seemed to be about the future. Not his own, really, but bigger picture stuff. Society. Earth.

_ Organic development, _ Mike thought to himself,  _ that’s the goal, isn’t it? _ He swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Well, sure Peter. Dang near everything will change if it’s just left to Ed ‘n Flo. I mean, just look at how people change,” he paused, “or  _ friendships _ .” He shot a glance towards Peter, to see if there was any reaction, but he was looking over his shoulder at the pot on the burner.

Mike just sighed quietly to himself. This was going to be harder than he thought. “Whatcha makin, shotgun?”

“Eggs benedict soup!”

“Oh.”

Mike went back to his paper, letting Peter poach his eggs. A few minutes later, Davy and Micky emerged through the bedroom door, or at least tried to. Now scanning the classifieds, Mike caught Micky’s eye.

“When was the last time we visited your ma?” 

Micky rubbed his still-tired eyes. “Gosharooney, man, I don’t keep track of that stuff.” he thought for a second, “Coco’s graduation, maybe?” 

Mike folded his paper and set it aside. “How ‘bout we drop over for lunch? And we’ll bring something for the young’uns.” Even though it wasn’t his family, he felt like he had an obligation to the Dolenz’s, and ever since last night it’s been eating at him that he hasn’t kept to it. 

Micky swung himself on the staircase. “What do we have that my little sisters would want, Mike? Old stinky, dirty laundry? Just bring your guitar and sing an old cowboy song or two! They always used to like that. Davy, Peter, you want to come along?” 

Davy answered first, discarding the grimace he wore watching the breakfast soup boil. “No way. You remember the last time I saw them? They wouldn’t stop mocking me!” 

“They’re kids, Davy.” Peter piped up and tasted his soup with a proud smile, “but that’s a no for me too, Micky. No offense, I just don’t think your mom likes me too much.” He nudged Davy to put their bowls on the table. 

“Guess it’s just the two of us then, Mick.” Mike said, and took his bowl of soup from Davy. 

Micky found himself blushing. “Guess so, Tex.” A recent but faint memory stirred in Micky’s mind, and his eyes widened a bit as he finally became aware of the uncomfortable stickiness in his pants. He excused himself and left for the bathroom. 

Mike pretended like he didn’t notice Micky’s urgency, and whisked away the thought that he’d done the same thing just half an hour before. 

Taking his spoon in his hand, he made a brave dip into the bowl, rupturing the yolk. He stirred, and brought a full spoon of egg, watered sauce, and cubed spam into his mouth. He closed his eyes and swallowed, refusing his face the luxury of a disgusted expression. 

_ A new low,  _ he thought to himself. 

“Not bad, Pete.” He said aloud. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only end note I'll make is that I am aware the phrase is 'ebb and flow', I just thought it sounded more southern and folky to say Ed 'n Flo. 
> 
> Overall I'm not thrilled with this chapter, but I'm bad at plots and it had been a while since I posted, so I just uploaded whatever I had.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time lunch rolled around, Mike and Micky had left and Davy’s fingers were sore.

“Y’know, I appreciate you trying to teach me guitar and all, Peter, but the strings are starting to bite.” He pulled his left hand off of the D7 chord he was holding and inspected the deep grooves in his fingertips, “Do you mind if we call it quits for today?”

“Sure, Davy,” Peter answered amicably and slid the strap to his Gretsch off his shoulder. “It’s a little after noon, want me to make lunch?” He got up from the bandstand bench and started for the kitchen to check if they had anything for sandwiches.

“Uh, no! That’s okay, really!” Davy quickly replied, still being able to taste the remnants of the watered-down hollandaise sauce from breakfast. “Um, why don’t we walk down to the pier and get ice cream or something?”

Peter was already in the kitchen, scrounging ingredients for a coleslaw and cheddar sandwich, but his ears perked up at the suggestion of ice cream. He loved sweets.

“Yeah, that sounds good!” 

_ Whew! _ Davy let out a sigh of relief.

Within fifteen minutes Peter was kicking his bare feet in the waves as they walked along down the shore.

“It’s a real drag they’re closing the park down, huh?” Davy said, fixing his eyes ahead on the motionless ferris wheel on the pier. 

“What?” Peter swung his gaze from the sea to find where Davy was looking. “Oh, yeah man, it’s a bummer. Hey, I think I saw a dolphin out there.” He squinted and pointed a finger, but Davy wasn’t looking.

Instead, Davy was looking at the three guys that were passing them a few feet away. He caught the eye of the one walking closest to him on accident, and stiffened up a little. He watched as the kid, a tall, young, blonde guy with a crew cut, glanced over at Peter who was making animated gestures and babbling about the dolphins. The kid’s eyes slid back to Davy before looking away and going back to talking with his two similar-looking friends. 

Even though he was out of sight, Davy stayed stiffer and added a bit more macho to his walk than he normally would. He didn’t want to get hung up on it, but he was worried about what the guy thought about the two of them.  _ Could they tell with Peter? Did they think the two of us were a pair?  _ Although he had been pretty nonchalant when Peter told him that he digged guys a few months ago, the idea hadn’t really left his mind since. He truly didn’t mind that his roommate played for both teams, as it were. As long as it didn’t hurt anyone what’s the big deal, right? But the bigger picture… looking at men and fancying them, that’s what stuck with him. With every guy he met, something in his head made him look at them like Peter would. Trying to find what was attractive with them, like he already did with girls. What surprised him though, was that he could. Easily, even. It was like some door had opened in his mind and he could properly see what Peter was talking about. 

Ever since then, Davy had been in turmoil. This whole new world of attraction, fancying after birds as well as fellas, it’d just make his life more frustrating, wouldn’t it? Now he had this new desire picking at his bones that Davy would never risk satisfying. This troublesome awakening, was it Peter’s fault? Would it change things with the guys? What if Peter found Davy as attractive as he him? Would anything happen then?

“You okay, man?” Peter asked, stirring him out of his thoughts, “You’re really doing a number on the sand.”

Davy looked behind him to see an aggressive trail of footprints leading up to his feet. “Oh, uh no--I mean, well, I’ve just been thinking. You mind if I ask you something?”

Pete slowed his pace a little and spun until he was walking backwards and looking Davy in the face. “Sock it to me.”

Davy glanced to see who was around and lowered his voice. “What exactly do you find attractive in men?” 

Peter’s face dropped, slightly sombered by the topic, but still cheerful. He looked above Davy’s head at the horizon for a second or two, collecting thoughts. “Good posture and clean hair!” He beamed in jest, but his friend only cracked a small smile. Peter shrugged, “I dunno Davy, it all sort of factors in. I guess it just depends on if I dig their groove or not.”

Davy leaned to look behind Peter, making sure he didn’t run into anything while walking backwards. 

“I know that, but who’s in your bag? What’s your type?” 

“B positive, I think,” he joked again, not entirely sure of the reason Davy was asking. He thought for a moment. “Well, I guess I don’t really dig big guys, you know? No one that could beat me up too badly. And I don’t really go in for blondes, I like darker hair and darker eyes. And I dig it if he’s wearing something real far out. Not smart to get much pickier than that. Why?”

“No reason, really.” He didn’t look at Peter, fixing his gaze on a seagull on the dunes and completely ignored the two drop-dead gorgeous blondes walking towards them.

“Like I said before, mate, if it makes you uncomfortable---”

“No! It doesn’t. Honest.” Davy’s focus returned to Peter before looking out towards the ocean. He liked how Peter called him ‘mate’. It was something the other two never really picked up from him, but Pete liked to say it to him, even if it did sound funny in an American accent. 

Peter, still walking backwards, noticed the two chicks passing them, and although he could only see their backs, he knew they were the kind of girls Davy would drop everything and chase until he got dragged. And he hadn’t even given them so much as a wink.

“Man, what’s wrong? You’re not acting much like yourself,” he nodded in the direction of the two girls walking away. Always a cheeriness in his voice, even when he didn’t mean for it.

Davy glanced over his shoulder and looked at the two beauties, admiring them for about half a second before looking down at Peter’s feet in front of him in the sand. He watched them roll from toe to heel in syncopation, with seemingly endless motion, like the machines he’d watch while his father worked. Perfect motion. It made Davy’s head hurt to think about it. 

“How did you know you were…? Rather, when did you figure it out?” He stole a glance at Peter’s face, just in time to see his jaw slacken.

There was silence for a moment, filled only by the sound of a wave crawling up the sand. “Davy, you’re not---! I mean, c’mon, you’re the most chick-crazy cat I know! You’re just on the mend from that fox you saw a few nights ago! What was her name? Uh…. um, Sandra, right! Just ‘cause your game didn’t work on  _ one girl _ doesn’t mean you’re…” Peter became aware of how close they were to the pier and all the people and chose not to finish the sentence. Davy didn’t seem bothered.

“How do you know? Ever since you told me I just can’t stop thinking about it.” He was looking down at Peter’s feet again, and watched as the machinery came to a halt. They were at the edge of the pier, and Peter leaned up against one of the giant wooden support beams. 

He lowered his voice and leaned in. “Is this about me and Mike? I only offered. I don’t think he’ll take me up on it, anyway.” Davy furrowed his eyebrows in wide-eyed confusion. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He always thought he looked sort of cute like that. 

“ _ What _ about you and Mike?” He exclaimed in a hush voice. 

“Didn’t Micky tell you?”

“No?” 

“Oh,” Peter scraped his teeth nervously on his bottom lip.  _ Maybe Mike and I just assumed Micky would tell Davy. _ “That night last week. When I got beat up? I don’t remember exactly what I said or anything but Mike said he was interested in guys but never, y’know, tried anything, so I offered and....” he faltered, not really knowing what he was going to say. 

“...and  _ what? _ On the sofa, mate? You must be joking!”

Peter shook his head a few quick times, his hair flopping with it. “We didn’t! I swear. I kinda wanted to, maybe, but we didn’t! I just offered. Just helping a friend out, you dig? It’s not like it would mean anything. Not to him, anyway.” He stayed silent for a moment, a little shocked at the last part slipping out of his mouth like that. He hadn’t given it that much thought.

Davy was quiet as well. _Just helping a friend out?_ _I know we’re all close, but this is something entirely different._ His stomach caught a few butterflies. He thought of his next sentence before he said it.

“Well, if it’s just a friends thing, why don’t we grab some ice cream and head back to the pad?”

He even gave Peter his pickup line smile and dipped his one hip, which felt odd to do for the benefit of one of his best friends, but the excitement in his chest only expanded. 

Peter didn’t say anything, but his eyes got wide and Davy could detect a blush even in the shadow of the pier. For a second, Davy thought he had overstepped and that maybe it was just a Mike-and-Peter thing, but Peter’s mouth drew into a mischievous smile and started walking up the beach towards the entrance of the pier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit shorter, but I'll probably update a little sooner. Thanks for all the feedback!


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